


dragged from the depths

by whalers



Series: for what binds us [4]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Gen, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 06:48:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalers/pseuds/whalers
Summary: The overseers, with the gold masks hiding dead eyes just say he’s been chosen and they don’t, they never (they can’t) listen to the cries of his heartbroken parents as he’s carried outside and put in a cart with four other little boys. Their cries are quiet, swept away by the wind.Cleon wonders if the same thing would have happened if they’d stayed in Morley. The overseers seem crueler here. Maybe because the Abbey has such a strong grip on the isle, choking it’s inhabitants until they have no choice but to bow to its will.; a boy, forced into the abbey, has his life ripped from him, then is taken away from that hell and reborn in a new family.





	dragged from the depths

**Author's Note:**

> heed the warnings. this fic contains sexual abuse.

His parents have never been heretics, not as far as he can remember. The most that he could ever remember was a vase of roses kept on a shelf in the corner that were rarely touched, that his mother and father would bow their heads to when they passed. He doesn’t understand how the overseers could know about that. He doesn’t understand how that could be considered heresy. But the overseers, with the gold masks hiding dead eyes just say _he’s been chosen_ and they don’t, they never (they _can’t_ ) listen to the cries of his heartbroken parents as he’s carried outside and put in a cart with four other little boys. Their cries are quiet, swept away by the wind.

Cleon wonders if the same thing would have happened if they’d stayed in Morley. The overseers seem crueler here. Maybe because the Abbey has such a strong grip on the isle, choking it’s inhabitants until they have no choice but to bow to its will.

They don’t ask questions. They’ve all heard enough stories about the Abbey and the Trials and what happens if you fail. Cleon wants to cry and scream and run but he can’t. He can’t be loud and shatter the silence because no other words seem to come other than _yes sir_ , _no sir_ , and _please sir_. The boys who make noise in the middle of the night, from nightmares over anticipation of the Trials and nightmares from having passed and all the horrors they have yet to face, are either hushed by the other boys, the sisters (those blind and have not yet been blinded), or taken for the night by older overseers. He doesn’t want to be one of those boys. He doesn’t want to know what happens to them (he has a feeling he’ll know in due time).

The Trials of Aptitude are simultaneously a blur and horrendously vivid. He passes. One of two, out of a total of fifteen children (who were taken out back and shot right between the eyes, the shots echoing in the fragile silence of the morning and he can still hear them, screaming in their hearts because their mouths wouldn’t work right, crying silent tears and begging with haunted eyes _please no_ while others accepted their fate, defeat taken the last of their strength) and when he’s escorted back inside and the overseers nod to him, welcoming him as one of their own, as a _brother_ , he still can’t understand how he passed. What did he do and how did he do it? He can recite the events if someone asks but trying to sift through the memories makes his head hurt and his eyes well up with tears. The one good thing about the masks is no one can see him cry.

Are his parents looking for him? He manages to ask during training one day. He tugs the coat of the overseer looking over them as they learn how to hold a blade properly, where to strike to kill. His hands sting and his eyes burn from reading the Scriptures over and over and over.

“Why would they? They handed you over.”

He stares up in disbelief. The overseer looks down on him impassively. The silence stretches until he can’t take it, and he nods, “Right. Of course, brother,” and walks, numb, back to his sparring partner. He doesn’t know if the overseer truly believes anyone’s parents would willingly give up their children to the Abbey. He’s never heard of anyone ever doing that, not unless they hated their children, but his parents loved him. Still love him, he hopes. If they’re still alive. He goes through the motions, day after day, learning how to defend, how to kill heretics (mothers, fathers, children, sisters, brothers, babies), memorizing each Scripture exactly and perfectly until he can recite them in his sleep just like his other brothers, just like his Blind Sisters.

 

* * *

 

They move him from Whitecliff to the Abbey in Holger’s Square. He doesn’t hear the waves licking the cliffsides, doesn’t hear the cries of whales in the distance. He wonders why they are even kept there, when it feels as if the Outsider is waiting right beyond the waves.

The one thing he still hears is the soft song of a rune, mounted on a wall as a test of strength. He looks at it every time he passes by. _Restrict the Wandering Gaze that looks hither and yonder for some flashing thing that easily catches a man’s fancy in one moment, but brings calamity in the next_. He recites the Scripture every time he gazes at it, just like he did back at Whitecliff whenever he passed the room that held the bonecharms and runes that were to be ground and smashed up into dust. He is… _wandering_. He prays and prays and prays every night to give him strength to take on another day, to stay focused and true to the Scriptures. _For the eyes are never tired of seeing, nor are they quick to spot illusion._ He wants to tear down the rune and toss it into the ocean so it stops whispering to him in the night. He wants to smash it with a hammer and watch the dust be blown away by the cold wind. _A man whose gaze is corrupted is like a warped mirror that has traded beauty for ugliness and ugliness for beauty_. He wants to hold it to his ear and listen to the Outsider whispering its dark secrets and let it corrupt his body so completely that the overseers have to tear him apart and toss him into the dark waters. _Instead, fix your eyes to what is edifying and to what is pure, and then you will be able to recognize the profane monuments of the Outsider._

 

* * *

 

When an overseer, large and rough and smelling too strongly of drink, reaches into the bunk above him and yanks the boy out from under the covers, he wonders if there is even anything pure in this cursed place. But such thoughts are heretic. The Abbey is pure and clean and holy.

He sits in the kennels that day, absentmindedly scratching behind a wolfhound’s ears as he recites each Scripture. The same wolfhound he will be trained to send after citizens and witches. The same wolfhound he wishes he could send after those hands who had reached into his bunk and lingered between his legs.

 

* * *

 

Taking the children makes him want to vomit. The parents cry and beg, _please don’t take my baby!_ The children struggle and reach for their parents and the families who get physical must be put down. Most of these children won’t even survive and almost all of them have never wanted this to begin with so _why?_ And why must they kill the families? Are they considered heretics by proxy, simply by not wanting their children to be stolen from them?

“It’s mercy,” a brother tells him one day. Cleon numbly cleans his blade with an old rag. Do they wear black to hide the bloodstains? “They were heretics.”

“Oh?”

His eyes are blurry and he can’t see clearly. His thinks his hands are shaking. But his voice sounds as airy and empty as ever.

“Only heretics fight back. That’s why we put them down.” Is he trying to reassure him, or himself? Does he even understand what he’s saying? Why does fighting to take back their children who are ripped from their arms and molded into people who are dead in every sense but physical make them heretics? The books describe this as such a noble act. It’s all just propaganda, in the end. False advertisements. “They were heretics, brother. This boy will be reformed with the Abbey. His mind and soul will be cleansed of whatever filth his parents instilled in him. He will be free from the Outsider.”

He tears his gaze from the bloody rag to the boy cowering in the wagon beside the seven others. His face is hidden against another boy’s chest, muffling his cries. Cleon is not much older than this boy.

“Right. Of course, brother.”

 

* * *

 

When he is fifteen, a very curious boy is transferred to their Abbey from Serkonos. He’s bright and determined and refuses to wear their gold masks. His skin is dark and his black hair is tied back in a neat ponytail. Despite being only ten years old, the boy holds himself in such a way that he seems older, wiser, _better_ than a majority of the overseers here.

“This is our new brother, Mason Campos,” a brother introduces, large hand on Mason’s shoulder. He stands at attention and doesn’t shy away or shift uncomfortably, even as the brother presses against his backside. “The Vice Overseer from Serkonos spoke very positively of him, so we will treat him just as we would any brother.”

He notices Tobias standing back in the doorway, posture uncomfortable. Even though he cannot see his face, he can feel the dark look he’s directing at Mason. But the boy takes everything in stride. He doesn’t falter. He doesn’t appear scared. He politely turns down every offer of the mask, explains that he wishes for the citizens to know who is saving them, he gives small smiles as he gets to know his new brothers, he doesn’t seem _dead_ at all.

“I’m Cleon. It’s a pleasure,” he greets, once again finding himself grateful for the mask that hides his expressions. He is bewildered, fascinated by this boy. Does this count as a Wandering Gaze? Mason is flashing and incredible and has certainly turned his head. _Restrict the Wandering Gaze that looks hither and yonder for some flashing thing that easily catches a man’s fancy in one moment, but brings calamity in the next._  Mason couldn’t bring calamity and he is not of the Outsider. His eyes are focused and his hand only trembles slightly when he shakes Cleon’s hand.

“Likewise.” His accent is still strong. Cleon wonders if he’ll try to suppress it in the coming years. He could never manage to do so for his own accent, though he can’t say he’s ever tried. _Instead, fix your eyes to what is edifying and to what is pure, and then you will be able to recognize the profane monuments of the Outsider._ Can a person from the Abbey be pure? Can anyone truly be? He thinks, perhaps, if not _pure_ , then Mason is, at the very least, a _good_ soul.

 

* * *

 

Mason cries in his sleep some nights, just like most of the boys, just like him. Soft sounds that rouse him from slumber, and he reaches over to shake him awake. He’s confused every time Cleon does it. He doesn’t always remember his nightmares.

Mason talks of his dreams for the future. He wants to be the High Overseer. He wants to change some of the rules of the Abbey. He wants to make the Abbey friendlier and more inviting and show the people there’s nothing to fear from them and everything to fear from the Outsider. Cleon almost chokes on his breakfast. He wishes he had his mask on. He hopes no one else comes in and hears this and sees his paler than usual complexion and wide eyes because that might be heresy simply on its own, to doubt such determination to better the Abbey.

He stumbles over the question he wants to ask, unable to find the right words. It’s not uncommon for overseers to voice their wishes, dreams of being chosen as the next High Overseer. Campbell will die eventually and someone will be chosen to replace him. Some want to be that person. Others, like him, prefer to fade into the background. Do the work. Recite the Scriptures. Go to bed. Repeat. He swallows the lump in his throat. Mason is too bright eyed to remain this way for long. He doesn’t want to be around when someone yanks Mason’s dreams away from him and tarnishes his body. “Did you always want this?”

Mason nods, squinting at his bowl. It’ll take a while for him to get used to the food. Cleon imagines it’s very different from the food back in Serkonos. “Ever since I was little.”

You _are_ little, he wants to say. He can’t say.

Mason continues, “I asked if I could join the Abbey when I was eight. And now I’m here, far far away from home. So if that can happen then my dream can happen too.” There’s a brief pause. Mason twirls a lock of hair around his little brown finger. “Even if I can’t be the High Overseer, maybe I can be the Vice Overseer.”

“I believe that you will,” and it’s not a lie. He’s not a liar. He tells himself that he is not lying and he is not a liar even though he _is_ and his hands can’t stop shaking and he wants to cry. _Restrict the lying tongue that is like a spark in a man’s mouth. It is such a little thing, yet from one spark an entire city may burn to the ground._ This boy won’t last. He’s never seen eyes that shine like his. Not Campbell’s, not the Vice Overseer’s (the very people he _should_ see it in), not anyone because those dreams burn up and die quickly here. Like wills to live and purposes in life. But he isn’t going to tell Mason that. He will never dissuade him or look down on him or taint him. Is breaking the Scriptures okay if it’s for the benefit of someone else?

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t understand how some overseers can blatantly break the Scriptures. They all pledged their lives to this, willingly or not, and have a duty to uphold the Scriptures every day of their lives. _Restrict the Wanton Flesh. Truly, there is no quicker means by which a life can be upheaved and sifted than by the depredations of uncontrolled desire_. Touching the boys, taking them away for the night, reaching between their legs and stroking and shoving fingers inside them; that’s a violation. It has to be. He wants to tell someone, but the only person he can consider a friend is five years his junior (and he is also not Mason’s only friend; there is another boy, Atticus, who he’s gotten friendly with and what if Mason tells him? he has no reason not to trust his bright eyed friend but the thought of anyone finding out makes his stomach ache. and keeping this horrible truth away from Mason is supposed to be a priority). He doesn’t even know if it’s the same man who does it. Are there multiple people doing this? How many, and _why?_

He wonders, one day, sitting with the wolfhounds again, watching a mother feed her pups, if it’s his fault. He has always been soft and pliable. He has never fought back (intense fear paralyzing his limbs, making it impossible to even utter a peep). Maybe it’s been _him_ all this time, breaking the Scriptures.

“Do you think that’s possible?” he asks the hound in Morlish, wary of anyone who could possibly overhear.

She gazes at him with tired eyes and licks his hand. He wants to tell himself that if he’s truly violated this Scriptures then she’d know and she’d punish him. But how many overseers hide behind their masks and reach into beds at night and violate the Scriptures then go on patrols with the hounds and do their work as if nothing’s happened? The hounds can’t tell the difference. They’re trained to obey.

 

* * *

 

All of these thoughts against his fellow brothers, against the Abbey, is _that_ a violation in and of itself? _Restrict an errant mind before it becomes fractious and divided._ How many Scriptures has he violated? He will be doomed to the void before he knows it.

 

* * *

 

Right after waking, he prays. He recites each Scripture, sometimes more than once if he’s been paid a nightly visit (though they’ve become much less frequent as he’s gotten older). He eats his breakfast and goes out on patrol or sits with the hounds. In the afternoon, he prays. He eats his lunch and tunes the music boxes. The sounds hurt his ears. In the evening, he eats his dinner, relaxes with the other overseers unless he has patrol, unless he has to rip a child away from a family. He prays before bed. He thinks he might even pray in his sleep.

On the days he has off, he wanders the streets. He gazes into the ocean and wonders if the Outsider is truly watching like so many people say it is. He wonders if the Outsider is laughing at him, laughing at every wayward overseer who doubts and lies and craves. He doesn’t have the strength to throw himself to the waves.

 

* * *

 

It’s been raining heavily for days. The ocean sounds angrier than usual and the thunder seems to shake the foundation of their meager dorms, waking up the younger boys at night and startling nearly everyone at times. The lightning hasn’t hit anywhere near the Abbey but it’s always a possibility, especially being so close to the water. Cleon wonders if the ocean will come up to greet them before the storm ends.

He runs from the main building to the dorms. The rains soaking him in seconds. He shuts the door behind him and removes his mask. A towel is waiting for him by the entrance and he wipes his hair, face, and hands, before fitting the mask back on. He shrugs out of his overcoat. Water drips steadily onto the floor. He feels like a drowned rat, which is funny, he muses, wringing out his coat in a nearby bucket, since he was born in Morley and it was just as (possibly even more) dreary over there. He should be used to this weather. There’s something about Dunwall, though, something that weighs down on his bones and makes his spirit sink deep into the earth. He doesn’t really think this is life anymore. All the overseers are dead behind their masks and the only one alive is Mason.

He has a job to do in two days, whether or not the storm lets up. Going all the way near Kaldwin’s Bridge to rid a house of some heretics. They’ve been waiting for the rain to die down a little, but at this rate, they need to get there before the heretics catch wind of them and vacate the premises. Overseer Tobias (the overseer who seems to hold nothing but contempt for Mason and trains him doubly hard than the rest of them, for reasons Cleon can’t understand and chalks it up to prejudice. no one likes Serkonans over here. he can’t fathom why) doesn’t want them to wait much longer. He’s not even going himself, but sending a team of four to get the job done. Such is well, he supposes, checking to see if he received any mail (a reminder of the job, another request to switch patrol shifts). It’s just another job.

He straightens up, pushing his red hair from his eyes. From the other room he can low chatter. There’s an angry gasp and a grunt and Cleon is by the door in seconds, eyes wide.

“Get _off_ me!” Mason yells, shoving hard at the other man’s chest. He takes maybe two steps back, grunting again in annoyance. “Th-that’s a violation of the Scriptures!”

The man starts to mumble more things that Cleon can’t hear through the blood rushing in his ears. His legs are trembling and only gripping the doorframe is keeping him upright. _Get him out of there_ , his mind screams. He doesn’t move. Mason seems to recover quickly however, his earlier outrage morphing into a calm anger Cleon can’t imagine himself ever possessing at that age. “Get away from me. I have patrol in a few minutes and I won’t be late because you can’t-- can’t _control_ yourself.” He brushes past the man and moves towards the doorway and that’s when Cleon snaps into action ( _too little too late_ ). He grabs Mason by the shoulders and pulls him out the room, slamming the door behind them.

“What--what happened? Did he hurt you?” There’s a frantic edge to his voice. His vision is blurred with tears and he’s once again grateful for these damned masks. He doesn’t want Mason to see him crying. He’s supposed to be strong.

“I’m fine.” Mason moves Cleon’s hands off his shoulders and gives them a light squeeze. His hands are trembling, his smile is strained. His blue eyes are watery with unshed tears. “His vision -- clouded. He must’ve -- th-the Outsider must have clouded his mind. Human… uh, d-desire.” He struggles to find the proper words, the accent he’s been trying to smooth out is strong, brought on by his distress. “It … I need to -- patrol. I have to go. I will see you later, brother.” He turns and goes, unsteady, retrieving his sword and pulling up his hood. One foot outside and Mason is soaked, the clothes clinging to his skin making him look smaller. Vulnerable. He may carry himself as an older boy but he is still a child.

There are so many children. But that means nothing to the Abbey.

Cleon rushes to a window, rips off his mask, and vomits over the windowsill. Wind and rain lash at him but it’s a welcome reprieve from the burning feelings twisting up inside him. How much more of this can he take? He wishes he could shut himself off and go through the rounds like his peers.

 

* * *

 

The rain still has not let up.

He spends the next two days with the wolfhounds, under the guise of training them, when in reality he’s just curled up beside the mother hound. She’s been depressed, he thinks, since her pups were taken from her. Is this how his mother felt? How many other mothers are suffering like this? He hopes that she’s had another child by now, a girl. That way the Abbey can’t touch her.

 

* * *

 

He is simultaneously happy to be away from Holger Square and full of dread to complete this job. He quietly prays on the ride over, first each Scripture, then a request for everything to go well. Perhaps the heretics have left by now. Or maybe they’re already dead. He’s seen many heretics destroy themselves and their friends and their families in the name of the Outsider. A terrifying being that creature is.

“What makes people turn to the Outsider?” one of four asks. He’s new. Cleon doesn’t recognize his voice. “Even if the voiddamned leviathan _did_ grant them powers, is the price even worth it?”

“We don’t discuss such things,” the eldest snaps, turning away. The newbie frowns under his mask, wringing his hands in his lap. The third overseer is sleeping, so he turns his gaze to Cleon. Voice dropping to a whisper, he asks, “What do you think?”

“I…” The words are hard to get out. Cleon feels all wrong today, like someone took him apart and pieced him back together in the wrong order. He wishes he could sleep but his mind is both racing and full of nothing. “There must be… something that catches their eye,” he finally murmurs. “But it turns their mind. They lose themselves in it and at the end of their lives they aren’t even themselves anymore. So I’ve heard.”

“Like that old Granny Rags, yeah?”

He nods absently, though he isn’t truly paying attention. The only thing keeping him marginally grounded are his fingers brushing against the fur of the hound resting beside him.

“Do you think these heretics are still going to be there by the time we arrive?”

 _I hope not._ “Let us hope they are, brother, lest we made this journey for nothing.”

 

* * *

 

Everything goes wrong quicker than he can imagine.

They arrive at night and assume the safety of darkness but it is far from enough. It may have been their downfall, in actuality. The heretics seem to have vacated until they fall from the rafters, silent and calculated and Cleon watches from farther in the house as people in long coats fight with a calm purpose, as if they’ve been waiting for this all day (they must have, he’ll later realize). They don’t rise to any taunts, barely even utter any sound as they slice through the overseers. One slices the wolfhound’s neck in a fluid movement while it’s distracted by a man who moves gracefully, almost as if dancing. Cleon hasn’t made any move to help. He feels rooted to the spot, paralyzed by what he assumes is fear. He feels like he’s in a sort of daze.

The new overseer runs towards Cleon screaming and he doesn’t move as the boy trips over his own feet and falls hard against the wooden floorboards. Cleon isn’t sure when his trembling fingers started to unclasp his mask but by the time a man in a long red coat resembling Campbell’s strides over to slide his blade through the boy’s ribs, he’s clutching his mask, silent tears flowing down his face as he glances up at the man. They’re all dead. Every one of his team lays lifeless on the floor, the original heretics they were sent after nowhere to be found, only these deadly people left in their wake. Touched by the Outsider, they must be. No one could move from one place to another in a rush of displaced air and wisps of void and _not_ be Marked. He will die here.

This earlier panic has ebbed away, replacing itself with a calm that he has never felt before. He will _die_ here, finally, after so long, his soul will be at peace. And if he will suffer in the void for all his misdeeds then he will greet his punishments with open arms because then at least he won’t be in the horrible alive-dead state he’s been wandering around in since the overseers ripped him away from happiness.

“No more… n-no more, please…” His mask clatters to the floor. Rain pours down on the roof and wind rattles the windows. The man in the red coat is watching him carefully, wiping his blade clean. When will it come? He hopes it is quick.

“Master Daud, what do we do with him?” asks a boy with his hair in dreadlocks tied back into ponytail. There’s an angry glint to his eyes and he grips his sword tightly, ready to strike.

Cleon glances at the rest of them; three, more boys, one with oddly colored hair, the one who moved more gracefully than the others, and one who apparently didn’t hear the other boy’s question and asks a little louder than necessary, “what do we do with him?”

“I _already_ asked that,” the angry boy growls, clearly trying to restrain himself.

Daud holds up a hand to silence them and steps towards Cleon and he is sure that his time is drawing to a close as the man presses the tip of his blade against Cleon’s throat. “You didn’t make a move to help any of them.” His voice is gravelly and there’s a deep scar running down the side of his face. Cleon leans a little forward, digging the blade a little into his throat. It stings, his body wants to pull away on reflex but he doesn’t allow it. This is his time to finally be at peace.

“Please, sir… please. No more. No more…” his voice is barely above a whisper. His eyes slide shut and he wishes he could grip the blade and shove it into his throat, but his arms don’t move from where they hang limply at his sides.

“You’re an overseer, are you not?”

It’s such an odd question, but he nods a little anyway.

“How many of the Scriptures have you broken, hm? Or did you come here hoping they’d all die around you?” This gets a short huff of a laugh from one of the other boys. Cleon chokes down more sobs before he answers,

“Too many. I’ve done too many wrong deeds and I can’t do it anymore, please.”

And Cleon can’t see their faces but Malon understands faster than the other three. He gazes at Daud with calm grey eyes and tilts his head thoughtfully. Daud has long since decided he’s going to take the boy.

 

* * *

 

Their hideout is old and damp and crumbling around them but Cleon loves it anyway. He’s still shaken. He’s been here for days and he can’t quite seem to move past the fact that his pathetic life was in Daud’s hands and the man gave him another chance at life. He was ready to die. And now he’s in a constant state of shock and exhaustion and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s asked so many times, at night when most of the others are asleep and Daud is working in his room, why he’s still alive. But he always receives about the same answer. _Kids like you deserve second chances_ . He doesn’t believe it. He _can’t_ believe it.

He has an idea, now, of what will make Daud answer him.

“The Scriptures I’ve broken,” he starts, and Daud glances up from the papers he’s been going over. He seems tired of this conversation.

“You’re breaking all of them by being with me,” Daud interrupts, returning to his papers and signing a few in quick succession. “Especially when I share the Mark with you.”

“Wait, please! Before, I…” he takes a breath. “There was Wandering Gaze, Errant Mind…” Daud isn’t perturbed in the slightest, as he’d expected, so he pushes on. “ _Wanton Flesh._ ”

And _that_ gets his attention. Daud drops the papers on his desk, narrowing his eyes at Cleon sharply. He’s expecting the blade, or at least a slap, maybe even being tossed out the window. None of it happens. Why won’t it happen? He can’t understand and his eyes start to well up with tears. Daud doesn’t even get up from his seat.

“What did you do.”

“Th-there was a man, or men, they’d… he would, at night,” when had his chest tightened? He feels like he can barely breathe. He feels like a hundred faces are watching from the windows even though at quick glance nothing is there. No one is around to hear but Daud. “Hands and-- it would happen often, they’d… it… my fault. I never stopped him.” This is not how it was supposed to go. It feels like a terrible confession, something he deserves to be gutted for, for trying to make it seem like it was their fault instead of his own. Daud looks furious and the anger is justified and wanted and _please just kill me already_ but Daud still doesn’t get up. He doesn’t reach for his blade, he doesn’t strike him or even raise his voice.

“Listen to me.” His voice is low and dangerous and books no arguments. Cleon swallows down a cry. “That was not your fault. You weren’t breaking any of the fucking Scriptures. _He_ came onto _you_ , and you never deserved a second of it.”

Cleon doesn’t think he should be able to cry this hard, not after he’s cried every night since he’s arrived. People shouldn’t be able to cry this much.

 

* * *

 

Daud hints that one of the younger boys, Thomas, could relate to him. His eyes are the deepest blue Cleon has ever seen, and he has features that he can’t quite put his finger on. His hair is a dirty blond and his skin looks to be lightly tanned. He’s quiet and keeps to himself and their medic, Rinaldo, trails behind him like a pup. He doesn’t think he’s heard Thomas say one word, not even when he’s walked in on Thomas curled up in Daud’s room. Cleon doesn’t think he’ll have any chance of speaking to Thomas about those things, but it’s a little comforting to know he’s not alone.

Cleon tries to ask Rinaldo about him instead, one sunny afternoon. Training is slow going for him; he’s still exhausted and dazed. Even though he can hold a sword properly and already has a head start from some the others because of his Abbey training, Daud isn’t pleased with his techniques because he can’t shake what the Abbey drilled into him, he can’t stop himself from standing at attention and staring in the vacant way all overseers do, he can’t seem to find himself. He wonders if any of the others had felt this way when they first arrived here. Are any of them former overseers? Did any of them want to die? Do any of them feel out of place? It’s not something he can talk about.

“What’s Thomas like?” They’re sitting in the makeshift infirmary. Rinaldo is doing inventory check; needles and scalpels and bandages and alcohol and various oils and herbs and equipment spread out on the desk.

“He’s… troubled.” Rinaldo furrows his brows, mouth pulling into a frown. “He’s barely said two words since he got here and others keep trying to get a rise outta him. He, uh…” His expression ranges from sad to angry back to sad in a matter of seconds. Cleon watches him with a vague sense of caution and dread. “Daud says he’s been through a lot. Just try not to touch him, okay?”

Cleon nods. He understands.

 

* * *

 

The nightmares don’t stop just because he’s left the Abbey.

He dreams of being dragged by the hair to the interrogation room and tied to a chair as his brothers heat up the heretic’s brand. They are chanting. Mason is always in the crowd, watching him with cold eyes that have seen too much. He dreams of hands all over him, inside him, heavy disgusting bodies on top of him, breathing in his face and biting viciously at his neck, pounding into him over and over. He dreams of it happening to Mason and never being able to reach him in time. He dreams of death. He dreams of all the children he’s stolen from homes and forced into the Abbey, he dreams of tiny bodies being shot in the head or drowned in the river, of massive jaws ripping them to shreds, of ripping him to shreds.

The dreams won’t stop and he cries in his sleep every night. There is a very volatile boy by the name of Killian, pale as death and eyes hard as steel, who yells at everyone that wakes him up with their cries and shouts. He’s a light sleeper, he says. He can’t fucking sleep if they’re making so much noise, he says. As Cleon lays in his top bunk, chest heaving and trying to quiet his cries, one of the new boys sitting at the edge of his bunk and hushing him, he wonders why Killian bothers sleeping in this room at all. A girl who the others have begrudgingly referred to as Daud’s favorite, Billie Lurk, had moved out of the room shortly after he arrived. She has her own room now, away from the crying children in relative peace and quiet. Killian should do the same. They can’t help their crying. None of them can help being scared.

“They were on me,” he chokes out, gripping his thin pillow tightly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry --”

The boy hushes him, leaning over to rub his shoulder. His brown eyes are red and puffy -- has he been crying too? How many of them are crying?

(he knows that Thomas cries every night but has since done his best to keep quiet after being snapped at by Billie one too many times, he knows that Quinn occasionally yells in her sleep, as if fighting a swarm of invisible foes, he knows in the mornings by the look in Malon’s eyes when he’s had a nightmare)

How long will it be until they’re free from their nightmares?

“No one’s on you now.” The boy has an odd accent. Cleon can’t remember his name. He grasps around his brain for it, for something to hold onto, but he can’t remember. The boy reaches over and gently touches his shoulder. “None of those people are here.” His voice is gentle, and Cleon would never think it comes from a boy if he had not insisted on it since the moment he arrived. He sounds much angrier during the day, more defiant, daring people to question him. Now, his voice is comforting, but not soft enough that it might get drowned out by all the crying. Firm enough that it grounds him. “Daud wouldn’t let them get you anyhow. Neither would any of us. It’s safe here, so shh, okay? _Shh._ ”

Killian jumps up from his bed, dragging his mattress, pillow, and blanket, and marches out of the room with a growl, slamming the door shut behind him. Cleon and the boy jump. He thinks the frightened shriek he hears comes from Thomas. The room is full of panicked breathing and distressed crying. How any of them manage to fall asleep is a mystery, but Cleon feels a little safer with the boy by his side. His small, steady hands are nothing like the overseer’s.

 

* * *

 

“Why are your eyes always like that?” the boy, Jenkins, asks.

Jenkins is young and soft and tries to make up for it by putting up a hard exterior. He keeps the sides of his head shaved and keeps the rest of his brown hair tied back into a very small ponytail. He reminds Cleon of Mason, not in personality, but in appearance, with his dark skin and short stature and age. They’re the same age, he’s realized, if Mason is still alive (it doesn’t feel good at all to think about little Mason. he hopes he is safe. he prays that he is safe). He thinks that Jenkins is shorter than Mason and much more expressive, can’t seem to reel himself in until Cleon pulls him back. And he’s like a burst of energy that Cleon has desperately needed, and not even realized he did. Being around the others has helped considerably, but Jenkins is different. There is something about him. Jenkins makes his days a little brighter. Cleon is glad they share a bunk bed. He’s glad that Jenkins helps him at night.

“Like what?”

The clouds are heavy. It’ll rain soon but they’re lingering outside, doing stretches and working on their techniques. Sharing powers with Daud feels both wrong and right. Cleon can’t quite figure out if he feels good about it, being the complete opposite of the very people who ruined his life to begin with, or if he should be fearing for what will happen when he dies. He doesn’t want to die, not so much anymore, but it’s inevitable for everyone. He can’t help but wonder if the Outsider, whatever that creature truly is (because the Abbey lies about _so much_ , how much of what they say about the Outsider is true and what’s just speculation, blatant lies?), takes well to former overseers. Maybe it will get a good laugh out of his little life.

“Your eyes look like Malon’s. You always look sleepy or something.”

“Oh?” Cleon can’t say he’s ever noticed. If his eyes weren’t always half lidded, it was before he became an overseer. And that seems like another life. “I don’t know… I think they’ve always been like that.”

Jenkins gazes at him with those deep, deep brown eyes of his. A few strands hair have escaped his ponytail and fall against his forehead. Cleon fidgets under his gaze and look down at his gloves.

“Well, I think it suits you. Hobson has those eyes too but he always looks kinda… dead. Or bored. But when you’re not frowning, you look like… what’s the word, uh,” Jenkins leans backwards to crack his back, furrowing his brows as he thinks hard. “What’s the word Aeolos calls Malon?”

“Pretty?” Jenkins shakes his head. “Hm… sleepy, pleased, content, serene --”

“That’s it! Serene, that’s how you look. Then you don’t have that weird stare or bad look in your eyes. It makes you look like, I dunno, _nice_.” He seems frustrated that he can’t think of bigger or more descriptive words, but he is only a child.

Cleon smiles despite his brain telling him that Jenkins is absolutely wrong. But he’s never been one to shoot down nice words from a kid. It’s nice of him to say. If he pushes against the negative thoughts he can feel warmth blossoming in his chest. Jenkins is really too kind to him. “I guess I’ll try to smile more often.”

**Author's Note:**

> so. this took forever and i don't know why it ended up the way it did. but cleon and thomas are very important to me for personal reasons, in their traumatic experiences and the different ways they react to it. 
> 
> 1\. Cleon is about 17 when Daud picks him up. Daud is 30. Jenkins and Thomas are 12. Rinaldo is 13. Billie is 15, and if you're wondering why it's because i, for some ridiculous reason, always thought she was in her late 20s during the Knife of Dunwall, and it stuck and i don't feel like changing it. so she's a little older. it doesn't really matter much but i wanted to get that across.  
> 2\. Aedan is the graceful fighter that's mentioned. Javier is the angry one with dreadlocks. Montgomery is the one who can't hear.  
> 3\. i hold firm to the belief that Billie wasn't very close to most of the other whalers and instead stuck close to Daud and focused on her training and wandering the city. if there's a whaler that she's close to, it's Quinn, but that's a story for another day.  
> 4\. Cleon was molested. what Thomas went through is different, but Daud figured since they're both classified under sexual abuse then they could bond over it, or something! it doesn't really work. Thomas can't confide in people very well, and he's a very quiet boy who keeps to himself. i'm debating whether or not to write something about Thomas's childhood but i doubt my ability to properly write all the nasty things that happened to him. so who knows.  
> edit: i realized i forgot my own writing and Cleon was a little more than molested. i'm not entirely sure if it considered rape but we'll go with that.  
> 5\. Killian never gets his own room and must suffer through all the kids crying. help him.  
> 6\. Mason will return for later fics! he has his own group of friends he calls his family, which includes Jasper, who was briefly mentioned in the previous fic.  
> leave a kudos or a comment if you liked it!


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